That Butler, Fighting Nazis
by WynterSky
Summary: Nearly 50 years after consuming Ciel's soul, Sebastian staves off boredom by meddling in a very human conflict. (Features canon characters, a couple OCs and descendants of canon characters.)
1. That Butler, So Bored

I'm so sorry. I'm supposed to be writing a paper. You know how that goes with me. Anyway, this is my first attempt at anything Kuroshitsuji, so I hope it turns out okay. This is a longer story, but I will try to make the chapters as stand-alone as possible so readers don't get too frustrated when I inevitably have no time to write for several months.

**That Butler, So Bored**

Summary: Decades after consuming Ciel's soul, Sebastian forms a contract with a new master. Well, in a manner of speaking.

_Setting: A Warehouse in Berlin, 1938_

There was a knife through his heart.

It didn't hurt.

These were mutually incompatible statements, so one or the other had to be untrue. Sigmund wiggled the handle of the knife hopefully, and felt the blade grating against the rib it rested on. The vibration resonated through his whole chest, but it still didn't hurt.

That was decidedly odd. And it was definitely going to put a bit of a crimp in his plans for getting a promotion. Sigmund had been counting on one in order to get a more exciting position than guarding a lot of treasures the Wehrmacht had picked up in Austria and Czechoslovakia. Hitler was planning something great for Germany, and he wanted to be part of it...not bleed out surrounded by musty boxes, which is where things looked to be going at the moment.

_Well,_ Sigmund thought, _I'm not dead at the moment as far as I can tell, but I have a feeling that if I pull this thing out I will be._

With this decided, he sat down on a crate, taking care not to slip on the blood pooling around his feet or jar the knife that had made its home somewhere in his left ventricle, and waited to see what would happen.

Fortunately (or not, honestly. It could go either way.), Sigmund didn't have too long to wait before the air around him chilled, then shuddered, and there was S_omething_ standing in front of him. Sigmund thought he ought to feel frightened, but found he didn't. Perhaps he was going into shock.

"As masters go, you're not much but I can make do, I suppose," the eldritch darkness in front of him said, in surprisingly cultured tones.

"Beg pardon?" said Sigmund.

"You summoned me. With that," a hand with sharp black nails hand coalesced out of the darkness to point at the knife, "which means that we can form a contract."

"Oh, this thing? I didn't mean to do that," Sigmund said with a calm he was sure he shouldn't be feeling. "I, um, tripped."

"You tripped."

"Yes."

"You tripped and managed to precisely impale yourself on the Cursed Dagger of Bahomet."

"Oh, is that what this is? I'm just the guard, I don't know anything. What, or who, are you anyway?"

There was something very like a sigh of frustration. "How did you manage to get assigned as guard of a warehouse full of occult objects without any knowledge of it?"

"Come to think of it, that's probably why," Sigmund said.

"Must I explain in words of one syllable?"

"No, but it would be nice if you would explain at all," Sigmund hinted.

"Oh, very well," the darkness said petulantly. "I'm a demon. I eat the souls of those who contract me, for which usage of the Cursed Dagger of Bahomet is one method. It so happens that you have summoned me." It sounded as if it was trying to decide whether the circumstances were more embarrassing for it, or for Sigmund. "You can either make a contract—in which case I will consume your soul after a while—or die and let your soul fall where it may immediately."

Sigmund took a deep breath, then gagged at the squishy feeling in his lungs. "Do Nazi souls go somewhere nice?" he inquired once he had finished coughing up blood.

"Not especially, not by human reckoning."

"And I don't suppose we could just forget this ever happened?" Sigmund suggested, looking up pleadingly (although the effect was lessened by the fact that he couldn't tell where the demon's face was, or even if it had one).

"No."

"Might as well then. Make a contract, I mean."

"Good," the demon said briskly. The hand appeared again, long fingers curling around the handle of the knife and pulling it out smoothly. Sigmund winced and waited for the rush of blood that would drain what was left of his life, but it didn't come. "Now, what do you want?"

"Um," Sigmund said numbly.

"I have to give you something in exchange for your soul," the demon said, in a tone that signified his belief that Sigmund was very, very dense indeed and perhaps he ought to be using words of one syllable. "What will it be?"

"I don't know, this is all too sudden!" Sigmund flared, feeling it was safe to be angry now that the knife was out and he was still not dead. "How am I supposed to think of something I would be willing to trade my soul for in, what, ten seconds?"

"In ordinary circumstances, refusing to ask for something would break the contract and I could eat your soul right away." Sigmund cringed and scooted back in the box he was sitting on, but the demon was still speaking. "Luckily for you," it continued, "I am unimaginably, worldshakingly bored, so I have a suggestion that might help with your problem as well as staving off mine for a while longer."

"I'm listening," said Sigmund.

"I can offer you a trial period," the demon stated. "Five years. During that time I will offer you my services in a limited capacity until you decide what, exactly, you desire. If, at the end of those five years, you have not decided, I will consume your soul."

Sigmund considered. When compared to any of his other options, which were precious few at the moment, it sounded like about as good as he was going to get. "Sounds like we have a deal, Herr...what's the name, then?"

"At the moment, I haven't any," the demon answered. "Is there one you would like me to use?"

"Considering how rubbish I just was at thinking up a wish, I don't think I want to try putting together a name for you. Can't you take care of that part?"

"If you command me, Master."

"Fine then, I command you to give a name to yourself."

The next instant, the demon's dark form had condensed into a tall, black-haired man, wearing archaic servant's clothing. "My name is Sebastian Michaelis, Master."


	2. That Butler, Jailbreaking

[A/N: The London Cage was a real MI9 interrogation centre which operated from 1940-1948. I'm not sure on any architectural specifics so I just made up whatever was needed...]

**That Butler, Jailbreaking**

_Setting: The London Cage, 1940_

Sebastian watched as Sigmund inspected the scene of the violence he had just perpetrated. (Sebastian had been directly responsible for most of it, but it had been Sigmund's idea.) The underground location of the interrogation complex had been well suited to Sebastian's skillset, so there was no need to worry that their escape would be discovered before they were well gone.

"Good job," Sigmund said after a moment. "Now, can you conjure me some new clothes? It was very clever to have them taken away while I was being interrogated, but I can't leave like this. It isn't decent."

Sebastian waved a hand and Sigmund was clothed again in a nondescript jacket and trousers. While it didn't sit well with the demon's aesthetics, he couldn't let his master look too nice with the state London was in now.

"I must say, this has been a good week apart from, you know, the interrogation and everything," Sigmund remarked, stepping around particularly bloody portions of the floor so as not to dirty his shoes on the way out. Their method of covering their escape had been to obliterate anyone unlucky enough to be in the building at that time, so of course it had ended up being rather messy.

"Let's see...research British interrogation methods, check...take care of any potential turncoats, check…" There was a brown paper bag on one of the desks and Sigmund stepped over a corpse to pick it up. "Oh, and look! Lunch," he exclaimed.

Sigmund was shaping up remarkably well to relieve Sebastian's boredom since losing Ciel. During the first few months of their association, Sebastian had thought the clueless young sentry would never amount to anything, and the only thing that had prevented him from pushing Sigmund into fulfilling the contract as soon as possible was the knowledge that doing so would send him back into tedium for who knew how long.

To his surprise, once Sigmund got the hand of his new leverage he had proven to be remarkably ambitious, taking advantage of Sebastian's aid to snatch a position as a spy and then using that position to wreak as much havoc as possible on what he regarded the enemies of the Reich.

He was also, despite first impressions, quite devious and clever in the right situation, such as this one—your average spy would have chosen a less firsthand method of researching the enemy's interrogation methods. Sebastian was almost sorry the trial period was nearly half over.

Still. He _was_ starting to feel hungry.

…

"_What happened here,_" the British officer demanded when he reached the door to the Cage. The location where captured German agents were interrogated was supposed to be top secret, and there was no way anything like this could have been done if not from the inside. It was all was a bit much before lunchtime, although part of him was glad he hadn't had a chance to eat yet.

"Nobody knows, sir," said the soldier at the door. "There wasn't a soul inside left alive, guard or prisoner. I didn't get posted here 'till it was all over."

"I'll have a look inside, then," the officer said, motioning for his aides to follow him.

"If you don't mind my saying so, sir, aren't you a bit…"

"A bit...what. Young? Does my age preclude me from being able to serve the Crown? I work here, you fool." Or worked, in any case. From the look of things it would be a while before the Cage could be put back to working order.

The guard mumbled an apology, but the officer had already lost interest in him and headed inside. "Have all the dead been identified?" he asked one of his aides. Most of the blood had been mopped up by this point, and there were medics clustered here and there over sheet-covered heaps. The Cage had its own set of medics, so they could all be trusted to keep mum about anything they saw—if the Germans got word of how easily one of the top British interrogation centres had been crippled things would go badly.

"They're making progress, sir. Smithers is in charge of that, sir." The aide pointed to one of the more authoritative-looking medics.

"I'll take it from here, then," the officer said, waving the aides away. It was nice to have people to foist his paperwork on, but when he really got down to business they were a bit of a bother. His true role was an even more secret one than his position with Intelligence, and he intended to keep it that way.

"We're having trouble figuring out how many of our people were done in," Smithers reported. "Right before lunch like that...well, you would know, sir. Everyone has their own little place and we haven't sorted out how many were still in the building."

"What about the prisoners?"

"All accounted for—and all dead—but two," the medic replied, handing over two files. "They must have scarpered, but they can't have gone too far in this time."

The officer flipped one of the files open and glanced at the photograph. Sigmund Kastner, while a bit young for a spy, was otherwise unremarkable and his file was quickly set aside. The other…

"Sir? Major Phantomhive, sir?"

Major Bertrand Phantomhive-Middleford blinked once, then closed the file with hands that he forced not to tremble. "I'll get them," he declared, then spun on his heel and stalked out of the broken Cage.

[A/N: This fic has nothing that (yet) conflicts with the _manga_ canon, but it does rely on Ciel lasting long enough to have one child before Sebastian eats his soul.]


	3. The Reaper, In Trouble Again

**The Reaper, in Trouble Again**

_Setting: English Reaperspace, 1940 (or as close as you can get in a place like that)_

"It was one letter! You can't let me get in this much trouble over one bloody letter!" Grell protested, leaning over the cluttered desk and nearly toppling a heap of forms. "Hand on my heart, I swear it was an N."

"Well, it _wasn't_ an N, and you have another unscheduled Reaping on your record now," William stated. He had intended to sound disappointed, but all that came out was exhaustion.

"Unscheduled?" Grell sounded genuinely confused. "Will—very well, don't _glare_ so—Mr. Spears, she was trapped in the basement of a bombed-out building. The most I did is take another Reaper's target."

"She would have been rescued alive in another hour. That is, if you hadn't barged in and ripped her soul out."

Grell's shoulders slumped and William quickly regretted being so descriptive. There had been nothing malicious about the blunder (Grell's issues were mostly in the past now, with the demon and the Phantomhive brat), but it had wasted time and resources, things that were as dear to the English Reapers as the English people currently.

"What now?" Grell asked. "You wouldn't put me on probation for one little N, would you?" he pleaded. "I won't do it again, honest!"

"That's what you said last time," William reminded him. "We have to get you out of the way for a while so you won't cause any more trouble. But no, you're not going on probation," he continued, handing the red-haired Reaper a file. "We're loaning you out—the German Reapers are desperate for help, and they don't have the luxury of caring about paperwork, apparently."

Grell's eyebrows went up as he took the file. "Doesn't seem very patriotic, that...Poland? What's going on in Poland that they need so many Reapers?"

William shrugged. "The humans are being especially enthusiastic about this war, it seems. Anyway, you can reap to your heart's content over there for six months, and hopefully things will have calmed down enough here by then that we can deal with any extra paperwork you cause."

"Well, if you say so…" Grell did not sound pleased at having to go so far away, but didn't directly protest. "Still, I suppose it's better than probation."


	4. That Butler, Crashing a Party

[A/N: Anyone up for some mood whiplash? Also, there are some references to underage drinking in this chapter if that bothers anyone (it certainly bothers me, but it fit the characters).]

**That Butler, Crashing a Party**

_Setting: London, 1941 (although just barely)_

Sigmund spun around in front of a shop window, using the reflection to inspect the new clothes Sebastian had conjured for him. "It doesn't compare to ours, of course, but I have to say the British dress uniforms aren't half bad," he declared, reaching up to give his hat a rakish tilt. "You look nice too, Sebastian," he added as an afterthought.

The demon did not look as if he agreed with this statement at all, a disdainful tilt to his eyebrows as he adjusted one of his sleeves. "It's tan," he said, as if that explained his sulking. "I don't wear tan. It's...it's almost a color."

Sigmund held back a snicker at Sebastian's frustration. While the demon usually found his contractor amusing enough to be patient with him, Sigmund knew it would be stupid to push him too far. "I'm sure you can bear it until we leave the party," he said. "You did find an invitation, right?"

Sebastian produced a card. Sigmund was pretty sure his method of 'finding' it had probably involved violence somewhere, but there wasn't any blood on the invitation card so that was all right. "Perfect! I love a good party, and there's going to be British political bigshots and army top brass all over the place at this one. Let's go, can't be late!"

Since Sigmund was not permitted to access anything close to Sebastian's full power under the provisional contract, the demon could only transport him short distances. Even with that restriction, the six blocks to the hotel where the party was being held were hardly worth speaking of.

"Are we going to very many more parties after this one, master?" Sebastian enquired as they approached the crowded steps.

"Why? In a hurry to get back so you can wear black uniforms again?"

Sebastian didn't answer that question directly, but Sigmund was pretty sure he had the right of it. "It is reckless for a spy to appear so publicly in enemy territory. Especially if the enemy knows of his presence."

"Sure, they know we're still here, but do they expect us to be turning up at all the posh parties? I think not," Sigmund declared. "Besides, German parties are boring. That Christmas party we snuck into last week, now that was—"

"Dreadful," Sebastian finished. 

Sigmund rolled his eyes. "Fine, so you're allergic to mistletoe. _I_ had fun."

By that point, they had nearly reached the entrance, so it was time to stop talking shop. Their invitation card was accepted without any fuss, to Sigmund's relief. They hadn't had any issues yet, but at this point it was only a matter of statistics before someone thought it suspicious that they were invited to a party without knowing anyone who was actually there.

The hotel's ballroom was not decorated elaborately (the blackout curtains especially took away from the look somewhat) but it was still much fancier than anything Sigmund had been used to before he started his spying career.

It didn't take long for Sebastian to be waylaid by a couple of ladies, and since he couldn't escape them without arousing suspicion that left Sigmund on his own for a while. After watching Sebastian's predicament from a distance for a couple minutes, Sigmund began drifting around the room, listening to conversations and remembering anything that sounded important.

Several conversations and almost an hour later, he ducked away from a cluster of politicians and took a turn around a pillar only to almost bowl over a maid who had been coming the other direction. A tray flew one way, empty champagne glasses flew every other, and they both started apologizing simultaneously.

"I'm so sorry, sir, I didn't mean to—" the maid said, scrambling to pick up the tray and any of the glasses that were still intact.

"No, I should have been looking where I was—" Sigmund began, but cut himself off at the maid's astonished expression when she looked up at him. _Well, I didn't think I was _that_ good-looking, but who am I to judge?_ "I mean, um, do you...come here often?"

By this point, Sigmund had been responsible for an empty champagne glass or two himself or he might have noticed how strained the maid's smile was, or the twitch that was starting to appear under her eye. "I _work_ here," she pointed out. "I have to come here often or I'd be sacked."

"Oh, that's true," Sigmund realized. She looked to be about his own age, which was nice for a change. Since he was usually pretending to be a lot older than he was (both here and at home since otherwise no one would take him seriously) most of the girls he met were a bit too old for him. "Hey, what's your name?"

"...Bernice." She was really quite nice looking, Sigmund noticed, with big dark blue eyes and soft blond curls. Pity about her being English—and about the name. Who gave a kid a name like 'Bernice' nowadays?

"Do you work at a lot of parties like this?" Sigmund asked. "I bet you see a lot of famous people."

"I guess so," Bernice replied. A cleaning crew had arrived on the scene of their first meeting now, and she headed towards a table at the side of the room to fetch another tray. Sigmund followed, since by this point it was only the two of them in that area of the room, the rest of the guests now clustered around where the entertainment was going on. "Are you sure you should be talking to me?" Bernice asked, hands full again now although the glasses on the tray were full this time.

"I don't see why not," Sigmund said, taking one. "You're nice, I'm bored…"

"Put that down, you're underage."

Sigmund jumped at the voice directly behind him. "I've _told_ you not to do that, Sebastian," he pointed out.

"And _I_ have told you not to do _that_," Sebastian said, relieving him of the glass and returning it to Bernice's tray, "so I think we're even. Anyway, who is this?" he added, seemingly noticing Bernice's existence for the first time.

"This is Bernice. She's a maid." The 'obviously' went unspoken. Even in his slightly tipsy state Sigmund couldn't help but notice how strained Bernice looked now. "Also, I think you scared her, so you should apologize." Sebastian didn't reply, leaning over Sigmund's shoulder to study the girl more closely. "Seriously, what are you doing," Sigmund said as Sebastian stepped around him and reached out, one hand outstretched as if he was going to cover Bernice's right eye.

"This isn't a maid," Sebastian stated finally.

"What do you—I'm sorry, Bernice, he gets like that, hang on a second," Sigmund said quickly, pulling Sebastian a step back so he could Have Words with his errant demon servant. "Sebastian! What were you doing? Now she won't want to talk to me anymore."

"But—" Sebastian began, but Sigmund never got to hear what he was about to say, as at that moment Bernice threw the entire tray of champagne at them. Sebastian pushed Sigmund out of the way and took the brunt of the drenching himself.

"Hey, what was that about?" Sigmund demanded, shaking champagne out of his hair and stepping out from behind Sebastian. "Thanks by the way, Sebastian...Bernice? Is that you?"

With her hands now free of the tray, Bernice had used one to yank off a blond wig, revealing shorter, slate-dark hair. The other was holding a revolver. "In a manner of speaking, I am," she said (although by this point Sigmund wasn't sure if that was the right pronoun). "Now, shall we take this outside, _Sigmund Kastner?_"

"I feel lied to," Sigmund pouted, focused less on the revolver than the fact that Bernice wasn't an adorable blonde.

"Good, it means I'm doing my job well," Bernice smiled. "Outside?"

Apparently the British were not such terrible spy-hunters as Sigmund had been thinking. "Sebastian, I co—"

Bernice leveled the revolver squarely on Sigmund's forehead. At five feet away there was no way she could miss. "Stop talking."

Sigmund stopped.

Sebastian still hadn't moved.

That was the trouble with having a demon serve you—they were really helpful in the little things, but if something major happened they needed specific instruction before they would raise a finger.

With the wig-holding hand, Bernice pointed to a side door. "Let's go."

…

When Bernice marched them out of the building at gunpoint, Sigmund had been expecting to find a military police vehicle waiting for them. He wasn't sure whether he found the lack of one reassuring or not—he knew what it would mean back in Germany, but he didn't know if that was how they did things here.

"What now?" Sigmund asked. The side door had opened out into an ornamental garden, which was quite deserted and rather chilly, especially on a winter night for someone who had just been strewn with champagne. "And who're you anyway?" If he just could distract Bernice long enough to give Sebastian an order…

"Well, I was going to shoot you but that would leave Sebastian and I don't want that," Bernice said, sounding a little too happy about the prospect of shooting Sigmund. "And to answer your second question, my name is Bertrand Phantomhive-Middleford, and your 'Sebastian' ate my grandfather's soul."

"I don't see why anyone would still be angry about that," Sebastian stated in a mild tone of voice. "It was only fair, considering all I did for him—horrid little thing, really. He threw tea at me."

"Grandmama was very upset!" Bertrand shouted, the revolver shifting as he turned to glare at Sebastian.

Sigmund took his chance. Shoving Sebastian at the fuming Bertrand (it was a bit better, as unfortunate names went, than Bernice, Sigmund thought) he bolted for the gate of the garden. "Sebastian, I command you to come save me as soon as you get up from that!" he called back as several shots revealed what Bertrand's response had been to the surprise.

Being shot wouldn't kill Sebastian (very few things could and Sebastian wasn't telling), but it would slow him down for several minutes. Hopefully Sigmund would be able to elude the grudge-bearing counterintelligence officer on his own for that long. The fluffy maid dress his pursuer was wearing might help in that regard.

A bullet clipped a branch from a tree only a couple feet away and Sigmund ran faster, vaulting the low gate of the garden and landing on the sidewalk. It was iced over and he slipped, barely regaining his footing as Bertrand neared the gate.

"Get back here, you bloody—" Sigmund didn't hear the rest as he was running too fast, but he could tell that Bertrand had been forced to pause and open the gate in order to get out. That slowed him up for several seconds, which Sigmund used to dart around a corner into an alley and commence searching for a fire escape.

It was dark in the alley, and while he did find a fire escape after only a short time he nearly fell twice in his effort to climb it. "Hurry up, Sebastian," he muttered as he picked himself up the second time. "Just hurry up and get me and I promise I won't drink around weird maids again!"

If this had been a proper narrative, that was the spot for Sebastian to turn up with a helping hand and all-knowing comment. Unfortunately for Sigmund, this didn't happen, and instead Bertrand rounded the corner a moment later.

Sigmund scrambled for the roof as Bertrand shot at him again, one of the bullets catching his hat and sending it flying into the winter wind. _I knew I forgot something, I should have had Sebastian conjure me a gun to go with the uniform,_ he thought as he climbed the icy metal steps as quickly as he dared.

Some grumbling and ripping sounds behind him meant that Bertrand had followed him onto the fire escape. This was bad in one sense, but at least it meant his pursuer's hands were too occupied with other things to shoot at him for a little while.

With three flights' head start, Sigmund easily beat Bertrand to the roof, but that didn't help much with no weapons and a twelve-foot gap to the next closest building. There was a large chimney in the centre of the snowy roof he had reached, and he hid behind it, not that he expected much in the way of results from this action. _Come on, Sebastian, hurry up!_

Hopefully the demon wasn't too angry about the way Sigmund had just used him. It probably wasn't proper, but since Sigmund could die and Sebastian couldn't, it only seemed logical to make sure Sebastian was the one who got shot at.

More ripping sounds, mingled with some cursing this time, meant that Bertrand had reached the roof and Sigmund's time would soon be up.

A few seconds later, Bertrand's face peeked around the corner of the chimney. "Ha! Knew you'd be here."

Sigmund yelped (he hadn't expected Bertrand to be so _silent_ all of a sudden), then bolted, one of Bertrand's bullets catching the wall where he had been sitting. Bertrand kept pulling the trigger, but after that only clicking sounds came out. Sigmund paused and turned around. "Having trouble?"

"Blast it, what a place to run out of bullets," Bertrand grumbled, tossing the empty gun into the snow. "Luckily Grandmama trained me in this, too!"

Sigmund stared in shock as his antagonist suddenly flourished a two-handed broadsword, its blade gleaming coldly in the moonlight. "Wha...skirt? How? That's just not _fair_!" he wailed, ducking away from Bertrand, who just looked way too happy about this whole situation. "Sebastian!"

Sebastian did not appear, to Sigmund's frustration and Bertrand's obvious delight. The British agent's range had been greatly decreased by the change in weaponry, but the roof was not large and Sigmund could only dodge for so long.

As Bertrand chased him around the roof, Sigmund grabbed up an armful of snow and flung it in the other boy's face. Bertrand yelped but did not drop the sword, not that Sigmund had expected him to.

The much harder-packed snowball Sigmund sent after it did, however, obtain this result. Sigmund dove for the sword, but Bertrand tackled him before he could reach it and the two spies commenced wrestling in the snow.

With all the powder flying about, Sigmund couldn't tell which way they were rolling and it seemed Bertrand couldn't either as it was only a matter of seconds before suddenly there was no roof beneath them.

"Sebastian!" Sigmund called, instinctively clutching for anything that felt like it might support him.

"Let go of my dress!" Bertrand yelled. He was currently clinging to the flimsy metal gutter at the edge of the roof. Sigmund would have already fallen eight stories to the icy ground were it not for his deathgrip on Bertrand's voluminous skirt.

"Like fun I will, Bernice!" Sigmund shouted back.

"My name is not Bernice!" Bertrand tried to kick him but quickly aborted the action as the gutter began to creak.

"Then why'd you say it was?"

"I was in disguise, you numbskull, how did you ever get a job as a spy?"

"I have a demon at my beck and call, it does wonders for the resume although I have to say _I really think he's not making a very good impression at the moment!_" Sigmund finished vehemently.

"You wound me, master." Sebastian's voice came from above and Sigmund looked up to see him standing silhouetted at the edge of the roof. The demon was holding Bertrand's broadsword in one hand.

"No, Bertrand did that. Could you kindly get on with saving me now?"

"As you command, master."

A few seconds later, Sebastian had flung Bertrand back onto the roof, with Sigmund of course following since he was still holding onto Bertrand's skirt for dear life. The two spies quickly scrambled apart, and Bertrand backed nervously toward the chimney now that he no longer had the upper hand.

"Should I do something about our new friend, master?" Sebastian enquired, advancing on Bertrand with the sword in hand.

Sigmund thought about it. On the one hand, getting rid of Bertrand would probably save him all kinds of trouble later, but on the other hand it was only because of the British agent's unnecessarily frilly disguise that Sigmund was alive to consider killing him.

"Not this time, I think, Sebastian. Let's just get out of here."

"As you command, master," Sebastian said. He took Sigmund's arm and the pair of them vanished from the roof.

…

"Does this mean that you are willing to go back to Germany now?" Sebastian asked as they reappeared in a deserted street halfway across the city.

"Yes, fine, let's go back where you can wear your lovely black uniform again, I know how much you miss it," Sigmund sighed. "I'll feel better when we have a few countries between us and that sword-wielding psycho anyway."

[A/N: The first three chapters were mostly to establish the character dynamics, so this and subsequent ones are a lot longer. Also, I'm trying to get full 'episodes' down in each chapter so I don't torture anyone with cliffhangers.]


	5. The Agent, Somewhat Annoyed

[A/N: I had to establish one more character before really getting down to plot.]

The Agent, Somewhat Annoyed

_Setting: London, Spring 1941_

Trudging home from a long day (and a hefty chunk of night) at work in his Intelligence office, Bertrand was pleased to see that his townhouse had yet again been spared any major hits from German bombs. There was a cracked window in the kitchen, but that would be easy enough to cover up.

Grandmama would certainly be heartbroken if the Edwardian structure was ever severely damaged. When he was little, she had told him many stories about her and Ciel's adventures and escapades there.

Bertrand pushed open the door and frowned. "Did my house smell like curry yesterday?"

"Why, does it bother you?" someone called back from the kitchen.

"No, but the fact that I'm carrying on a conversation in a house I know where I live alone does," Bertrand said, stalking towards the kitchen and loosening his revolver in its holster. He thought he recognized the voice, but he had heard an account once of an incident involving his grandfather and a ventriloquist that really made him a bit untrusting in that regard.

He shoved the door to the kitchen open to see a dark-haired young lady (the term 'girl' was not refined enough for this damsel) sitting serenely by the table, sipping tea as a white-haired man stirred a pot of curry.

"Noor, what have I told you about visits and notification pertaining thereto?"

The young lady coughed delicately into her tea.

"Fine, fine. _Your Highness_, what have I told you about visits, etc."

Princess Noor Asman Kadar placed the teacup gently on its saucer as she turned to face Bertrand fully. "I need to stay in London discreetly for a few weeks, and since like you just said you are alone in this house I thought it would work out perfectly! I haven't seen you in ages, Bertie."

Bertrand produced a somewhat strained smile. "Agni, can I have some of what she's having? Please?"

He had only just satisfied himself that one pestilence had indeed left England when another descended upon him—granted Noor certainly did not compare as a threat to a Nazi-serving demon but she was very annoying nonetheless. She had been fun when they were little, but her stay at finishing school had made her both obsessively proper and at the same time carelessly overbearing.

It was not a combination Bertrand wanted to deal with in the middle of a war with bombs falling every night and a demon on the loose. Agni's immediate provision of tea had only made it minutely more bearable. "I don't keep anything very fancy here," he pointed out. "Are you sure you wouldn't rather stay in a nice hotel?"

"Quite. Don't worry, Bertie—"

"Bertrand," Bertrand declared firmly.

"Very well, then, Bertrand, I know you're busy so I promise I shan't be in the way at all! Nary a peep shall you hear from me, isn't that right Agni?"

"Of course, Your Highness," Agni agreed, dishing up two plates of curry and setting them on the table.

If Noor's promise to keep out of the way was true, Bertrand certainly thought it would be a bad bargain to pass up a chance to take advantage of Agni's cooking. Besides, Agni was the only human still living (apart from Grandmama) to have personally known Sebastian.

Bertrand wasn't sure how Agni was still around, considering that he had first served Noor's grandfather and not visibly aged since then. In all other respects he appeared perfectly normal, and whenever Bertrand tried to probe the subject with Noor or any of her relatives he had yet to receive an answer. While Agni had never appeared to be a threat before, Bertrand was reluctant to bring it up with him.

With Sebastian turning up again, however, he might eventually have to. Agni didn't yet appear to know about the demon's new contract (or that Sebastian had been a demon at all), but if he and Noor remained involved with Bertrand for much longer the higher the chances of his discovering it would become.

Still, as the days went on there was no sign of Sebastian or his new master (the idiot spy Sigmund Kastner) turning up in England again, Bertrand ended up never bringing up the topic at all. He would come home from work, eat Agni's cooking, remind Noor that sitar practice did not, in fact, count as 'nary a peep', and go to bed in preparation for another day of poring over interrogation reports and intercepted German transmissions.

He had almost begun to take Noor's presence for granted when he came home early one day to find a pile of suitcases on his porch and a taxi pulled up in front. Noor was perched daintily on one of the suitcases as Agni loaded the taxi.

"You're leaving?" Bertrand asked as he mounted the steps.

"Hmm? Oh yes, I have to go now, Bertie dear." Noor's tone was vaguely distant as she stared off somewhere far beyond where the taxi was standing.

"Bertrand," Bertrand corrected, but without too much fervor. He was honestly sorry to see his old friend go.

Noor stood up as Agni came for the last suitcases. "Well, I'm off now. Don't overwork yourself while I'm gone. And, um...oh, I _will_ miss you, Bertie darling!"

Bertrand stiffened in surprise as Noor suddenly put her arms around him—she hadn't hugged him since he was ten!

Almost before he realized what she had done, Noor let go and darted for the taxi.

As it vanished down the street, Bertrand was left wondering why it felt like she wasn't coming back.

[A/N: People who are read up on their history might realize what I'm alluding to here. Kudos to you if so.]


End file.
